


Let Me Dream of Sweet Mercies

by IneffableToreshi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Hastur Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Other, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23656372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableToreshi/pseuds/IneffableToreshi
Summary: After rescuing Aziraphale from the Bastille and having a lovely meal with the angel, Crowley finds himself dragged back to Hell to answer for his insubordination.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 79
Collections: My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes, My faves - Good Omens Whump





	Let Me Dream of Sweet Mercies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> This is a one-shot short for Whiteley Foster's fanfic contest, prompted by the image shown below.

[WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/pseuds/WhiteleyFoster)'s original artwork and prompt to this fic:

_ _

_ “Good night, angel.” _

_ “Good night, Crowley. And thank you, again.” _

_ “No thank you’s, angel, remember?” _

_ “Yes, of course my dear. Of course…” _

Crowley groaned, an aching, agonized sound that he himself could not hear over the high-pitched drone in both of his ears. He came to consciousness slowly, feeling that his brain had been replaced by stones that were rattling around inside his head. The world was dark and hazy and wouldn’t hold still. He considered the possibility that he might vomit.

Luckily it didn’t come to that, but it felt like more and more of a possibility with each passing second as he began to realize where he was and who he was with.

The last thing the demon remembered clearly was bidding good night to his angel after a lovely evening in one another’s company. He’d teased the other relentlessly as he savored his crepes, slyly asking whether they were worth losing one’s head over...literally. 

Aziraphale had smiled and blushed - such a lovely shade of pink - and insisted that the demon try them for himself. Crowley had done so, if only to please the angel, and found their flavor pleasant enough. He’d wondered (privately, of course...his bravery only extended so far) whether they’d taste sweeter if he sampled them straight from the angel’s lips…

The night had ended much too soon, in his opinion. He’d enjoyed his angel’s company, as he always did, but he’d wanted so much more… But then they were walking in opposite directions and he-

He’d turned back. He remembered. He’d hardly turned the corner when he’d decided that, no, he wasn’t ready for the night to be over. He wasn’t ready to walk away from his angel just yet, and he-

Then there was a sharp pain, starting in the back of his neck and spreading out through his shoulders, up into the base of his skull. 

Now...darkness.

“Oh, you’re in  _ quite  _ a lot of trouble this time,  _ Crowley _ …”

He tried his best to hold back the grimace, but Duke Hastur’s voice made him cringe at the best of times, times when he was not currently secured to a hard wooden chair, arms tied behind his back. “Didn’t think I’d been invited Downstairs for an office party,” he snarked, only to cough violently and feel something wet fly from his lips. 

One could have almost  _ heard  _ the grin in Hastur’s voice. “Keep joking, serpent. We know what you’ve done.”

Outwardly, Crowley retained his composure admirably. Inside, however, was turmoil. He was forcibly reminded of what he’d said to the angel as they stood together in that cell in the Bastille:  _ If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes. _

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” the demon drawled, rebellious to the end. “Gonna need to be more specific.”

His vision had just been starting to clear, and now he wished it hadn’t, for the Duke’s face was mere inches from his own, leering at him with something like triumph. It was a singularly disgusting sight, and his breath was a reeking stench best left unconsidered. 

“You’ve been  _ saving  _ people…” the Duke growled. “Told us you  _ invented  _ that lovely head-chopping machine, didn’t you? And now you’re  _ saving  _ people from it…” He leaned in closer, reinstituting Crowley’s urge to vomit. “Feeling a bit  _ guilty _ , were we?”

_ ‘People’ _ , Crowley’s mind repeated.  _ Not ‘angels’. He doesn’t know that it was Aziraphale I saved… _ He very nearly sighed in relief. It was one thing to get himself in trouble, but he had no concept of what Hastur might do to the angel if he thought Aziraphale was attempting to absolve demons. 

“So what if I have?” Crowley shot back. He swallowed down the urge to cough up more fluid and subtly yanked at the bindings on his wrists. “How d’you know it wasn’t for the greater evil? I’ve got it on good authority the bastard has a penchant for strangling prostitutes.” As the lie fell from his lips the demon sent a silent apology to his angel for spewing such a particularly vile tale about him.

He’d thought it was a decent enough attempt to turn the tables, but the way Hastur’s face split into a mindless, psychotic kind of grin told him he’d been gravely mistaken. 

“Is that so?” the Duke exclaimed in a decent facsimile of amusement. Finally he straightened up, relieving Crowley of the oppressing presence of his musk. “Very well then. Simply give us a name so that we can look into his reputation ourselves, and if you’re telling the truth you’ll be free to go.”

Crowley opened his mouth, and immediately closed it again.  _ Idiot, idiot, idiot… _ He shouldn’t have even bothered speaking. Any name he gave - even if it was the name of a genuine prick of a human - could be easily proven false with the smallest bit of demonic influence. The human would happily supply the information that they’d never set foot in the Bastille’s cells, and Crowley would be right back where he started. 

“I-”

Hastur must have predicted the lie that was working its way up through Crowley’s throat, because he struck without warning or mercy. Before Crowley could even register the ear-splitting crack or the burning flash of pain across his face, he found himself on the floor, head ringing where it had struck the hard stone. The head trauma was almost a mercy; he was so dizzy he could hardly register the way his cheek felt flayed open. 

Time didn’t mean much with his head swimming so soundly, so it could have been moments or minutes before Hastur grabbed the back of the chair and hauled Crowley back up into a seated position. 

“Let’s try that again, shall we?” the Duke suggested in a way that very much implied he was quite enjoying himself. “Tell me the name of the human you saved, and when I’ve confirmed the state of his soul, you will be set free.”

Crowley couldn’t quite tell if he was looking in the right direction because it seemed that there were now three different Hasturs standing and glaring at him. With a little shake of his head and dwindling hopes for getting out of this situation any time soon, he chose to focus on the one in the center. 

“I don’t know it,” he lied. 

The strike didn’t come right away this time. If it had, he would have been expecting it. Instead Hastur let just enough time pass to lull his captor into a false sense of security, and then-

Crowley didn’t need to breath, but the sensation of having all the air forcibly pushed from your corporation in a single blow was no less unpleasant as a result. He curled in on himself - as much as he could with his arms tied to the back of the chair - and gagged violently as his human body fought desperately to reclaim its precious oxygen. His stomach muscles screamed out in alarm at their sudden, unexpected assault. He was almost positive several of his ribs were broken. 

“You  _ know  _ that this is just the beginning, Crowley…” Hastur  _ purred _ as he strolled casually around the chair. “You  _ know  _ that it’s only going to get so much worse. So why not just tell me what I want to know?”

Breathlessness gave Crowley a few precious seconds to think, but doing so proved useless. He couldn’t give a human name without Hastur easily discovering that it was a lie, as no humans to date had escaped the guillotine's blade. And he certainly couldn’t tell him the truth, not only because discovering he’d saved an angel would be the  _ opposite  _ of helpful, but because he obviously wasn’t going to sell out Aziraphale. 

“Can’t,” he finally sighed when he had enough breath in his lungs to do so. “Didn’t get a name.”

The third strike was the worst yet, involving the intimate introduction of Hastur’s boot to Crowley’s collarbone. What little breath he’d managed to regain was forced back out of him again as his body flew backward to strike the floor once again. The weight of his own form crushing his wrists against the slats of the chair had him gasping out a silent scream. There was no speculation this time. His wrists - and possibly a few fingers - were most definitely broken. 

By the time Hastur righted him again enough air had returned to Crowley’s lungs to voice his pain, but he fought it back. He didn’t want to give the bastard the pleasure. 

“By all means,” the Duke drawled with a truly disgusting grin on his face, “do continue to lie to me, Crowley. I’ve got lots of fun games for us to play while you contemplate your loyalties.”

And because even a Crowley in pain was a Crowley who couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut, he responded with a smirk and a smug, “Sounds hot. Didn’t know you liked me that way.”

He’d braced himself for yet another attack, but instead Hastur’s hideous grin only grew wider and significantly more insane. 

“Keep on laughing while you can still remember how,” the Duke suggested. With a snap of his fingers a hearth that had been hidden in the shadows burst to life with white-hot flame. 

Crowley felt the blood drain from his face and swallowed hard. He was, as a demon, impervious to hellfire, but he had no such immunity to the glowing metal rod that was currently plunged into that hellfire. “What’s that?” he asked, cursing his vocal cords for betraying him. 

Hastur looked at the rod almost lovingly as he drew it out of the flames to reveal the brand affixed to the end of it. A Leviathan’s Cross, also known as the Cross of Satan. “It’s a reminder, Crowley,” the Duke chuckled with ruthless joy as he stalked toward the other demon with purpose. “A reminder of who exactly you belong to.”

* * *

Crowley wasn’t certain precisely when he’d stopped screaming. He only recognized, at some point while flitting in and out of consciousness, that the shrieks of agony he’d barely recognized as his own voice were no longer assaulting his ears. 

It took some time to force his eyes open. Well...a single eye. The other was swollen quite stubbornly shut, and even the good one had a red haze across it, like a blood vessel had been burst. 

He was laying in a heap on the floor just inside his flat’s door. He had no idea how he’d gotten there, but assumed Hastur had ordered him brought there once the Duke had finished having his fun. Thank Someone for tiny mercies. 

It took nearly a full day for the demon to muster up the energy to move. When he finally did it could hardly be called a crawl. Every inch of him was burned, bruised, or bleeding. He’d lost track of how many broken bones he’d endured. Just breathing was absolute agony. 

But he’d done it… He’d suffered it all, ridden out Hastur’s torments, and done it all without being tempted for a moment to bring his angel’s name into the equation. Aziraphale was safe. That was all that mattered.

He lost track of how much time it took him to drag himself inch-by-inch through the flat and up into his gloriously soft king-sized bed. Only once he was there, silk blankets pulled haphazardly around his broken body, did he finally allow himself to break down. 

With hot tears burning scattered trails down his face, the demon curled in on himself and began to make plans. This incident had been a wake-up call for sure, because Go-  _ Someone  _ knew he’d done so much more than just rescue an unknown ‘human’. He had to start planning ahead. He needed a way to protect himself if an even more egregious treachery came to light. He needed  _ insurance. _

He knew exactly who to ask. 

But first...he was so tired. More tired than he’d ever been in all his existence, in fact. So...perhaps, before he went to the angel...he’d just have...a little...nap...

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story, and please leave a comment to let me know what you think! And if you're interested in more of my writing, check out my blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com! <3
> 
> \---
> 
> Lovely readers; if you enjoy my fan-fiction and want to see more of what I do, you can check out my author blog at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com, where you'll find links to my social media, my original work, and more. Check it out and feel free to say hello!


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